


Patience

by My_Darkest_Darling



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greasers, Bottom Sherlock, But Sherlock loves it, Greaserlock, Jealous Sherlock, Jim is a Little Shit, John is a Bit Not Good, John is a tease, M/M, Possessive John, Possessive Sherlock, Right?, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a Mess, Top John, but we love him, just a lot of smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-04-21 02:29:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4811510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Darkest_Darling/pseuds/My_Darkest_Darling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At seventeen years of age, there is very little that Sherlock cares about, and even less that interests him. That is, until their new anatomy teacher arrives halfway through the school year. So begins a whirlwind of hormones, seduction, nonexistent patience, and absolute chaos as Sherlock attempts to capture the man who has ensnared him so deeply, the only one who's managed to catch his interest and keep it. But when boundaries are crossed and lines are blurred, can they keep themselves together? And who is it that lurks in the shadows, waiting to give the final push that will send them falling.... falling... falling...?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Look my Way

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone! This is my take on Greaser!lock, and I so desperately hope you enjoy. Just a warning, this is a Johnlock story, and has it’s rating for a reason. Please don’t read and then flame me afterwards for either of those things. I am American, and this story is purposefully Americanized, as the whole Greaser thing took place more in America than anywhere else, so please don’t judge me for all the ‘Murica present in this writing. Please review and let me know what you think! I’d love to hear your opinions!
> 
> I do not have a beta, so any mistakes made are my own.
> 
> Disclaimer: Much to my disappointment and despair, I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, or any of the others that may make an appearance in this fic. They belong to Moffat, Gatiss, BBC, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am merely borrowing/abusing them for my own purposes, with much love and affection.

_‘Damn.’_ That single word was beginning to sum up Sherlock’s thoughts with alarming frequency, canceling out any other word or phrase that tried to pass through. It was simply all there was to think, he supposed, all that really described the gorgeous specimen in front of him. Well, in front of the class really, not Sherlock in particular, as much as he might wish it otherwise. _‘Damn.’_ And there went his thoughts again.

It wasn’t very often that Sherlock even showed up to school, much less class, and rarer still that he managed to stay in said class for the allotted time. However, today when he had pulled up in the parking lot, intending only to stay inside for an hour or so, he had heard rumors about a new teacher, and thought, _‘What the hell? Might as well introduce myself.’_ The teacher in question was meant to teach anatomy, which likely meant he was an idiot who couldn’t cut it as a doctor, and was also as dull as all the rest. Still, why should he deny himself the pleasure of engaging in a new round of deductions? So, to this dull first period anatomy class Sherlock went.

Several minutes late, the greaser stalked into his classroom and straight to the far left-hand corner of the room where another student scrambled to vacate the seat he was eyeing. Here, he dropped into the chair like a stone and lifted his chin to smirk lazily at the teacher, truly looking at him for the first time. His breath caught and the silent curse crossed his mind for the first time that day, his smirk curling into something more hungry and purposeful.

A heaving sigh from the teacher broke through his reverie and Sherlock straightened slightly, his eyes starting to focus on more useful details than the older man’s handsome face and delightful musculature. “Mister Holmes, then, I presume?” His teacher asked, voice sounding wearily amused. Sherlock loved that voice already, wondered how it would sound gasping and groaning his first name instead.

“Sherlock,” he corrected, “But yes.”

“Please see to it that you aren’t so late next time, yes, Holmes?” The blond man said, lips twitching slightly at the denial of Sherlock’s unspoken request to be called by his Chirstian name. “As I was saying. My name is Mr. Watson, and I’ll be taking over for your former instructor, Mr. Hill. I’ll try to continue where your class left off, but please don’t hesitate to let me know when you’re having trouble with anything. I’ll be more than happy to help you out. However, since today is my first day here, I’d prefer to let you become more accustomed to me. So, if you have any questions, feel free to ask me now.”

Immediately, Sherlock’s hand shot up. A perfect chance to test his deductions. “Yes, Mr. Holmes?” Watson asked, smiling slightly as though amused by the fact that the tardy student seemed eager.

“Why did you introduce yourself as Mister instead of Doctor?” After all, the signs were there. It was hardly a difficult leap.

For a moment, Mr. Watson looked stunned before smiling slightly. “I’m not a doctor anymore, I’m a teacher now. How did you know about that, Holmes?”

Sherlock gave a huff of annoyance at the use of his last name, but answered all the same. “Simple, really. There’s a medical degree on the edge of your desk that you’ve yet to hang above your desk with the other accomplishments. That’s not all, though. You aren’t just a doctor. You were an army doctor. I can see this from your hair, which is only slightly out of regulation, and the way you’ve fallen into parade rest.” Here, the older man self-conciously readjusted his stance. “There’s also the way you seem to favour your left shoulder, and the slight tremour in your left hand- your dominant, I might add. This suggests that you were shot and invalided home, and were unable to find a job as a practicioner due to the tremor. So, you’ve ended up here due to the fact that you met all the qualifications necessary to fill this post for the remainder of the year.” Finished, Sherlock sat back with a self-satisfied grin. Maybe this teacher wasn’t quite as dull as the others, but he was hardly difficult or different, unfortunately. Now, Sherlock simply waited in silence with the rest of the class for the blowup that would inevitably come. After a very long pause, the teacher opened his mouth to speak.

“That…. was…. brilliant.” A collective ‘huh?!’ seemed to pass through the room at the entirely unexpected response, and Sherlock quirked a brow. “A bit not good, really, but absolutely brilliant,” he continued. “I’m impressed, Mr. Holmes. I do hope that you’ll put that intelligence to good use in this class, because I can already tell you’ll have absolutely no reason to flunk this course.” With a smile that was absolutely blinding, the good doctor turned from Sherlock to answer the other students, and it was then that Sherlock decided he had to have this man.

So, for the last thirty minutes, Sherlock had been staring at his new teacher, the one that was different and exciting and interesting, trying to riddle out every little piece of information he could, trying to deduce every detail of this man, but it wasn’t enough. His eyes, his mind kept getting caught up in the deep blue of Doctor Watson’s laughing eyes, the gold and silver strands of his hair, the obvious muscle beneath that god-awful jumper, the way those black slacks hugged his backside perfectly. John, that was his name, the one on his certificates, and such a simple name had never seemed more appealing. Sherlock had found his new distraction. He was going to have John Watson one way or another, and he would keep him until the man failed to surprise him any longer.

When the bell rang, Sherlock was the last to leave, stretching as he rose from his chair before sauntering to the front of the room. He paused by the desk and scanned the certificate to make sure he had his doctor’s name correct before purring, “Have a good day, Doctor Watson.”

The older man glanced up and smiled back, completely oblivious to Sherlock’s ulterior motives. “And you as well, Mr. Holmes,” he replied kindly. “I look forward to seeing you in my class tomorrow.” The meaning behind his words was clear. ‘Don’t you dare skip this period,’ they said. Sherlock only smirked.

“But of course, sir,” he drawled lazily. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” And then he was gone, sweeping out of John’s classroom and out of the school, speeding down to the dirt lot he used to race with only thoughts of his delicious new teacher to keep him occupied. For once, Sherlock Holmes couldn’t have been happier to be wrong.

 

* * *

 

 

The next several days passed in a blur of elevated hormones, longing stares, seemingly useless flirting, and absolutely pointless coursework. Sherlock was ready to burst. As promised, he arrived every single day for John Watson’s class, although usually late. He took to wearing his tightest jeans and shirts, his leather jacket now removed during this period with frequency to show off the assets Sherlock was very well aware of having. Appreciative looks came, of course, but never from the source he wished. His voice became little more than a purr, molten and dark during those brief moments he addressed his instructor, but it garnered no reaction, save from a few tittering girls. Sherlock had even gone so far as to perch on the corner of the good Doctor’s desk one day after class, holding up a paper and arching a brow, silently requesting assistance he didn’t need. John only shook his head and smiled, answering Sherlock’s questions before sending him on his way with no other reaction.

It was _infuriating_. John Watson was an enigma like none other, and the fact that he was ignoring Sherlock’s advances drove the greaser insane. It wasn’t as though John wasn’t attracted to men, Sherlock could tell that the older man was clearly bisexual, if a bit self-conscious about it. So, why wasn’t he reacting? Surely John wanted him? There was absolutely no reason for John not to. Sherlock was very attractive, and he knew it. He could charm the pants off of anyone he wanted to, whenever he wanted to, but it just wasn’t working! Something had to give. There had to be something he wasn’t doing, something he hadn’t tried, anything that-

_Of course!_ They had yet to be alone together, had yet to interact in a situation where social norms could be cast off or abandoned. A Cheshire-cat grin spread across Sherlock’s features and he mentally analyzed John’s schedule to come up with the most logical way to ambush him. Being an attractive and relatively young teacher, students were swarming into John’s office constantly during his lunch, conference periods, and in between classes. However, John was always the very last teacher to leave, staying long after the cleaning staff had left, often until seven at night. Perfect. Sherlock would just leave at his usual time and come back when John’s was the only car left in the lot. Simple.

That day, Sherlock smoked exactly two cigarettes less than his usual quota and left in a spectacular mood, without any of his usual flirting and teasing. He went back to his shabby apartment and lounged around, planning his exact strategy for the approaching evening. Finally, around five thirty, he changed into a particularly tight black shirt, his most well-fitting jeans, added a touch of kohl around the rims of his eyes and left his place, driving towards the school at as slow a speed as he could manage.

Sure enough, by six twenty, John’s car was the only one left at the decrepit building. Sherlock smirked. Too easy. He parked his bike in the alley where he went to smoke, so that no one would get suspicious, and picked the lock on the back door to get inside. With measured footsteps and a decided swing to his narrow hips, the greaser sauntered into John’s classroom and back to his office, pushing the door open. His greeting was a sultry, “Hello, Doctor Watson. Working late again?” a lascivious grin firmly in place on his lips.

As expected, John jumped a bit before chuckling nervously in response. “Hello to you as well, Mr. Holmes,” he returned, his smile kind but confused. “Might I ask what you’re doing here so late? You should have gone home hours ago.”

_'Ah, my darling Doctor,'_ Sherlock thought, ' _surely you aren’t so naive?'_ But instead of voicing these thoughts, Sherlock simply shut the door behind him, the lock giving a resounding click in the small room. “Well, you see, Doctor Watson,” he began slowly, stalking towards the desk like a predator would his prey. “I’m in need of some help. Something only you can do for me. I’ve needed it for a while, actually, but I never could find the right time to speak with you.” He reached the desk, laying his palms flat on the surface and leaning forward. “So when I noticed your habit of staying late, I thought to myself, ‘Hey, maybe then would be a good time. Then I wouldn’t have to worry so much about being interrupted.’ That’s why I’m here. Do you think you can help me…., sir?”

John’s cheeks tinged with the barest shade of pink, and he swallowed harshly. “Mr. Holmes, I hardly think all of this is necessary,” he admonished. “Nor is it appropriate. Please, just….”

“Just what, Doctor Watson?” Sherlock asked, feigning hurt. “I just need you for a moment, please. And my name is Sherlock, not ‘Mr. Holmes.’ Don’t be so stuffy.” Here, his smile came back, and he began to creep his way around the desk. “Come on, _John._ Please?” The Doctor turned to face him in his chair, eyes wide and almost panicked. Sherlock took that chance. He seated himself in John’s lap, straddling the man’s thighs and wrapping his arms around John’s neck before the man could push him away.

Much to his surprise, though, John didn’t try to shove him off. Instead, the older man gripped Sherlock’s hips and pulled him closer, the shock fading from his eyes to be replaced with a deep hunger as the doctor grinned up at him. “You can be quite persuasive, Sherlock,” John said huskily. “Although we really, really shouldn’t be doing this. Still, I’m glad you came.” Baffled, Sherlock’s blatant seduction faltered and he gaped at John, making the man laugh. “You’ve been driving me insane, you beautiful, brilliant boy. Do you have any idea how much I want you? How much I’ve been dying to kiss those smirks right off your lips, to bend you right over my desk and claim you? God, you’re a menace!” He dove in and bit down harshly on Sherlock’s throat, sucking a dark bruise into the pale flesh there as Sherlock moaned and shuddered in his arms.

_"Oh, fuck!"_ This was far better than any outcome Sherlock could have predicted. He threaded his fingers through John’s short, greying strands and yanked as he felt his tight jeans become even more restricting. “Damn,” he groaned, smiling as brighty as he could manage at the thought that John was marking him, claiming him in a way that everyone would be able to see the next day. It was glorious. Still, it wasn’t all that he wanted. Sherlock tugged harshly until John’s mouth disconnected from his skin with a wet _pop_ that sent shivers down his spine. “You said you wanted to kiss me, then fucking do it, old man,” he snarled, glaring down at the doctor, who only smirked back.

“As you wish,” he purred. Then, his lips were on Sherlock’s, his tongue pressing forward, his mouth devouring Sherlock’s in a way that no one had ever done before. The greaser moaned and kissed back just as fiercely, taking all he could get, but wanting more, _needing_ more. And, as though John could read his mind, the doctor shoved Sherlock into the desk hard enough to leave bruises and stood up, leaning down over the younger man to trap him there as he continued to ravage his mouth. One hand slid beneath Sherlock’s back to cup the back of his neck, while the other teased lower and lower, skimming over the hem of Sherlock’s jeans to scrape along the quickly-growing bulge.

Sherlock broke the kiss with a loud moan, tossing his head back onto the desk and rolling his hips up. “Fuck, babe, that’s good,” he murmured, breath coming in quickly. “Come on, gimme more, I need it. Have me, fuck me into the desk just like I know you want to.” He reclaimed John’s lips, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck and his legs around his waist, rocking their hips together as well as he could. Fuck yes, this, _this_ was what he had been craving, what he needed from that beautiful man above him.

However, John didn’t do any of that. Instead, he slowed the kiss to something almost gentle, much to Sherlock’s displeasure, and broke away with a low chuckle. “Eager, aren’t we, Sherlock?” He teased, straightening up and disentangling himself from Sherlock’s limbs. “Well, this will have to wait. I assure you, Mr. Holmes, if this is what you want, it will be no casual fling. Also, I’m not in the habit of sleeping with people who are underage, let alone my students.” He smiled, and Sherlock’s heart sank a little bit. “So, here’s the way I look at this. Keep up your studies, and if you wish, we can attempt as proper a relationship as people in our stations could have. Then, after you turn eighteen and graduate, maybe I’ll fuck you.” John turned and grabbed his bag, leaving Sherlock to sputter and protest atop his desk as the man winked and left the school.

And once again, for several minutes after, the only word running through his mind was, ‘Damn.’


	2. If You Want to Call Me Baby...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm a horrible person. I have no other excuse. School has been whipping my ass, so I beg forgiveness, because this story was an unfortunate casualty. Sorry!
> 
> One again, I have no Beta, so all the mistakes are my own. AMERICANISMS ARE INTENTIONAL!
> 
> Disclaimer: Much to my disappointment and despair, I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, or any of the others that may make an appearance in this fic. They belong to Moffat, Gatiss, BBC, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am merely borrowing/abusing them for my own purposes, with much love and affection.

The next day was hell on Earth for Sherlock Holmes. His mind was in a state of shock, unable to process anything, his body moving on autopilot from the moment his eyes opened. The only things of which he was truly aware were the events of the previous evening. He recalled sitting in John’s office for thirty minutes at least, staring after the older man, wondering what in the hell was wrong with him. What did John mean by ‘proper relationship’? What relationship? Was a quickie really that much to ask? Because that’s all he wanted, all he needed really. Just a quick fuck to get the good doctor out of his system. At least, that’s what he told himself.

  
It wasn’t until he found himself seated in John’s classroom, glaring at his semi-smug looking teacher and not listening to a single word that his mind finally came back to him. Immediately, he straightened up in his seat and sought out John’s eyes, trying to recall exactly how it was he had arrived at the school in the first place. When John did finally turn to look at him, it was with a small smirk on his lips and heat in his gaze. Sherlock quickly turned away, willing himself not to flush and being thankful that no one saw.

  
After class was over, Sherlock meandered down to John’s desk, in control of himself once more. He plunked inelegantly onto the corner of John’s work space, glowering down at the smiling doctor and slipping him a simple piece of paper that read, ‘When and where? Do not waste my time.’ The good doctor, true to form, chuckled and said, “The answer to that problem is simple, Mister Holmes. Why don’t you come in after school and I’ll explain it to you more thoroughly?” He turned back to his work in clear dismissal, and Sherlock’s lip curled in a sneer as his mind raced in confusion. What the hell was wrong with that man?! 

Nevertheless, he departed, trying to sort out his thoughts. He had to have John, there was no way around it. The sight of the doctor made his heart pick up and his blood boil, something he knew wouldn’t change until he had gotten the man out of his system. But graduation was over two months away, and he didn’t know if he could wait until then. It might drive him mad. Proper relationship. What a complete load of crap.

  
In his anger and confusion, he decided that staying at the school was in no one’s best interest. He stormed into the parking lot and raced off, down to the Yard. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only greaser who had decided to give the dirt lot a run that day. A small figure leaned up against one of the metal sheds scattered about the place, tracking Sherlock with his eyes as he rode. Another person, much taller and sturdier than the first, was seated nearby. A few more seemed to be racing, accompanied by their girls and crew. Sherlock snorted, but pulled into the lot anyway. Maybe a fight would help him clear his mind, or a race.

  
As soon as he dismounted, the small teen he had first set eyes on came sauntering over, sporting clothes more suited to a Soc than a Greaser. “Jim,” Sherlock greeted sourly, not really in the mood to deal with the madman. Jim was just a wee bit nuts, fingers in every possible social group, yet fitting into none. So many people seemed intimidated by the little male, but Sherlock really couldn’t understand why. He didn’t have the stance nor mass of a fighter, nor did he carry any weapons. He wasn’t a very fearsome person. Blackmail, probably, was the main factor behind Jim’s power. Well, that and his friend Sebastian.

  
A large smile spread across Jim’s face, not reaching his dark, dead eyes. “Sherlock, darling,” he purred, throwing his arms wide. “Long time, no see! You’re almost never here anymore. What happened? I was beginning to miss you.” His sing-song voice grated on Sherlock’s nerves and he knew it too, only increasing in volume as he drew nearer to the agitated teen.

  
Even though Sherlock would much rather drop dead than listen to Jim speak, he forced a smile onto his face and said, “Did you miss me, Jim? Really? I must say, I’m flattered.” His smile dropped and turned into a cold sneer. “Pity the sentiment isn’t returned. Piss off, I don’t have time for you today.” He tried to move past him, but the despicable little cretin simply laughed and looped his arm through Sherlock’s.

  
“You’re so funny when you’re angry, Sherl,” Jim replied in his most saccharine voice. “You know, my friends have been telling me that you’re actually attending classes at that dull institution this semester.” He smirked, leaning his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with that lovely new teacher would it?”

  
Sherlock yanked his arm out of Jim’s grasp and snarled at him. “I said I don’t have time for you today, you little bastard. Get it through your thick head.” He stalked away, the sound of Jim’s laughter following him and sending inexplicable shivers down his spine. Jim was a crazy person and Sherlock had been very foolish to have gotten involved with him when they first met.

 

\--------------------

 

It had been a little over a year prior. Sherlock had come down to the track and raced a few rounds with one of the few people who tolerated him. The sound of clapping brought them both up short. A small-statured teen stepped out of a nearby shed, sporting a sweater with the emblem of a nearby private school. “Well done, boys,” he said laughingly, his voice shifting pitch dramatically. Neither Sherlock nor his companion had ever seen the little brunette before, and Sherlock couldn’t help himself. His eyes ran up and down the boy’s figure, little things leaping out at him like words from a page. _Sixteen, gay, his boyfriend’s hiding in the shed still, we interrupted something for sure. New to the area, Irish if the accent is anything to go by. Thinks he’s smart, thinks he’s got the world in the palm of his hand. Likes dogs, there’s hair on his pants and sleeves. Something’s not quite right about him..._

  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the shorter boy, climbing off his motorcycle. “Who are you?” He asked rudely, broadening his shoulders. He wanted the kid off his track. He wasn’t right, there was something off in his eyes. “This really isn’t the place to come for a rendezvous, you know. Some of the guys who come around here probably wouldn’t take kindly to a couple of queers jacking off next to their equipment.” Not that he could say much, being bisexual and all, but still. Bust to make the brunette feel threatened so he would beat it.

  
The Irishman, however, let out a surprised laugh. “Smart one, aren’t you?” He asked, seemingly delighted. A bright, near-manic grin lit up his face and he strode forward, extending a hand. “I’m Jim, by the way, Jim Moriarty. It’s so good to meet you.”

  
Sherlock eyed the hand warily, choosing instead to examine the younger teen more closely. “You’re new to the area,” he began, “so let me make some things clear to you. I don’t take kindly to uninvited people on the track. If you’re not here to drag and you weren’t invited by a racer, then don’t come here. You certainly don’t fuck your toy in our sheds. Types like you aren’t welcome here by most of the other guys either, so you might just want to clear off for good. If you think you’re smart, trust me, you aren’t. We can tear you apart before you so much as blink.” Sherlock glowered at the smaller brunette, angry at both Jim -for coming uninvited- and himself -for being intrigued by him. He turned around, grabbing Greg’s arm as he went, and stalked back towards his bike. He climbed on and revved the motor, but before he drove off, taunting words called out.

  
“Oh, I think I’ll be seeing more of you, darling!” Said the Irishman gleefully. “I’ve decided I quite like you. Maybe I can consider you to go a round with me in the shed, what’d you say?”

  
Sherlock snorted disdainfully and sped off, Jim’s laughter following.

 

\-----------------------

 

He wished he could say that he had held fast to his annoyance with the smaller teen, that the extent of their acquaintance had been a few off-putting conversations exchanged on the track before or after a drag. But, unfortunately, that was far from the truth. He had taken Jim up on the shed offer and many others, gotten more close to both the Irishman and his boyfriend than he cared to admit to anyone. It was disgusting to look back on, something that made him feel oddly soiled. What made matters worse was the fact that Jim couldn’t seem to let go, or accept that things were over. His boyfriend, Sebastian, seemed more than pleased to have Sherlock out of the picture, but the madman himself refused to let things die. It was annoying, to say the least.

  
He raced several rounds that afternoon, losing more often than he won, but it helped to clear his head, so he didn’t care all too much. By the time he finally called it quits, Jim and his little group had already left, along with several of the other racers. It was quiet, calm, good for collecting one’s thoughts. So, he propped himself up on the wall of one of the sheds and turned the situation with the doctor over and over in his mind. It still seemed odd to him, and downright stupid, for John to put in place rules and demands. Really, Sherlock should just say ‘fuck it’ and find someone else to sleep with. Irene was always more than willing for a tumble. But just one taste of the older man simultaneously not enough and too much to ignore. In light of this troublesome fact, Sherlock decided he’d meet up with the doctor, just for shits and giggles. What could it possibly hurt?

  
He didn’t bother making himself pretty for that evening’s meeting like he had the one before, petulantly thinking that John could just deal with him windswept and sweaty from the afternoon’s exertion. Instead, he simply got back on his bike and took off towards the school, having little to no caution, unlike before. He was frustrated and he planned on taking it out on the doctor if he had the opportunity. Sherlock lit up a cigarette as soon as he was parked in the alley, waiting for the principal’s car to pull away before he entered the building, reluctantly stubbing out the half smoked fag. He stormed down to John’s classroom and into the office inside it, slamming the door closed behind him. “What the hell is your deal?” He started in instantly, seething. “Proper? What are you even thinking?”

  
John, infuriating man that he was, barely glanced up from his papers, a smirk firmly in place on his features. “Well, hello to you too, Sherlock,” he drawled, continuing to mark things up on the assignment in front of him. “It’s good to see you as well.”

  
Sherlock growled low in his throat and stalked forward, jerking the papers out of John’s hand and flinging them over his shoulder. All the coy seduction he had been using was gone, replaced by agitation at the fact that John was being so very difficult. “I don’t get you. Anyone else would have been more than happy with what I was offering. What’s your deal?” Because who in their right mind tells one to stop when they’re so close to what they want? Who says, ‘No’ like that? Obviously John Watson did.

  
The good doctor looked at the scattered papers in vague amusement, laughter playing in his eyes. “I was grading those, you know,” he said casually, but at the look on Sherlock’s face, he let the pretense drop. He gave a little sigh and stood, circling his desk to stand in front of Sherlock with nothing separating them. “I told you what I meant, Sherlock. I’m not going to sleep with you. I don’t fuck my students, I don’t bed minors, and I don’t do one night stands.” He folded his arms and leaned back against the hardwood.

  
“Then why am I here again?” Sherlock snapped, frustrated. He was angry at John’s refusal, his demands, and his seeming nonchalance about the whole situation.

  
John, on the other hand, was more than amused. He gave Sherlock a smile and replied, “Well, you’re here because you want me, Sherlock. That much should be obvious, especially since you approached me first.” He laughed at the scowl he received in response. “If you want me, you’ve got to put effort into it. I’m not losing my job or my self respect to ease your libido. So, if you want anything from me, you have to prove that the benefits are worth it.” The doctor uncrossed his arms and straightened up, moving forward. “I’m an older man, Sherlock, and I have no time for little flings that result in nothing. I’m more into serious relationships. So, I propose exactly that.”

  
Sherlock stared at John, baffled. This was not at all where he had expected this to go. A serious relationship? They were teacher and student, how were they meant to have a serious relationship? “So, you’re talking dinner and drive-ins and-”

  
“And boring dates and the like?” John finished, his tone amused as he cut Sherlock off. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I know that won’t be easy, in this town, but on the weekends and such, we could go out of town, get to know one another. Although,” he took another step forward, stretching out a hand to card his fingers through Sherlock’s windswept curls, tugging the younger man closer. “I’m fairly certain you already know quite a bit about me, don’t you?”

  
The greaser forced himself not to lean into the touch, instead giving a haughty snort and glaring down at John. The idea was preposterous, unthinkable. It would never work, and was absolutely pointless. But still… no one had ever denied Sherlock before, not like this, not when they wanted Sherlock so badly. What was it that made John different? He was an enigma, a puzzle Sherlock wanted to solve. He couldn’t bring himself to just walk away. “And if I agree?”


End file.
